


I'll Be the Guard Dog of All Your Fevered Dreams

by sparkles321



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock (TV) RPF, Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: ? - Freeform, BAMF John Watson, Blood, Blood and Gore, Danger, Doctor - Freeform, Doctor John Watson, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt John Watson, John Watson Being a Hero, John Watson in Afghanistan, John Watson is a Saint, John is a Very Good Doctor, Johnlock - Freeform, London, London Underground, PTSD John, Platonic Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Sherlock - Freeform, Terrorism, Tube, Violence, army doctor, protect john watson at all costs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-05-15 21:26:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 5,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5800711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparkles321/pseuds/sparkles321
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dr. John Watson's life is in two pieces- the fevered nightmare that was Afghanistan and the calming coolness of Sherlock Holmes. He hasn't realized how much he needs Sherlock until now - when everything goes horribly wrong and he is all alone, grasping at fragmented dreams. And maybe Sherlock realizes what he's doing to John, what he makes the doctor go through every time they arrive at a crime scene.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. heroes don't exist

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, the title is a Fall Out Boy reference. :)

Mary's voice is cheerful. "And can you pick up flour? I want to make some bread. There's just something about being pregnant that makes me feel all broody."

John smiles as he jostles through Tube passengers. "Alright. See you in a bit. Love you."

"Love you more!"

"I doubt that. Bye now."

He presses end call and boards the Tube, minding the gap and feeling the same childlike sense of wonder when it first rushes away from the platform.

He has always loved this feeling of flying. From the Blackhawks to trains, he thinks wryly, observing the people about him and wondering idly what Sherlock would deduce about them.

A little boy is running a toy car on his mum's leg. She stops him and he moves to the next passenger, adding  _vroom_  noises. The passenger, a teen girl, doesn't quiet him; instead, she plays along.

Smiling to himself, John snaps open a folded copy of the Times from the vacant seat behind him. He scans the headlines, mostly rot, and moves on to sports. He really hasn't kept up with rugby, cricket or football, unless remembering dusty games played with rag balls in Afghan villages count.

At the memory of that he begins to do his routine perimeter checks. An emergency exit on each car. Windows that could easily be broken. So many people, though...

He stops himself in time and reads a rather dull article on the royal children, feeling proud he was able to quell the panic that once overwhelmed him. Almost to his stop, he wonders what bread Mary is making. Banana? Wheat? They swoosh into a tunnel.

There is a sudden noise and he doesn't hesitate, falling from his hard plastic seat to the floor, hands over head, eyes closed. Everything shakes briefly.

 _Oh my God, we hit an IED._  He raises himself up quickly _. No IED. No Humvee. This is the Tube, John. You take the Tube all the time._

Something is wrong, however. He clicks on his keychain penlight; it is dark in the tunnel. The Tube car is on its side, and he realizes suddenly that one of the cars ahead must have exploded somehow. Terrorists? Bomb? Accident? And there is blood. Blood does not scare him; it calms him - he remembers what to do. It shocks him to action. He rolls up his sleeves in the deathly silence and observes the mother he saw earlier, feeling pulse. She is dead. He moves on to more people, all dead.

Sudden sobbing makes him turn and he sees the little boy, bloody palm clutching the toy car. John's vision blurs and it is as if the boy's face is juxtaposed with that of Sgt. Deakes.

_He was slumped over the wheel... face twisted in pain, arms mangl_ _ed. Coins that had been packed into the IED were impeded in his flesh._

_"I'm Captain Watson, Sergeant. We're going to bring you home." Keep him awake, talking, alive._

_They had cut him out of the burnt Jeep. He was the only survivor, buddies' bodies in the street already attracting onlookers. A dead female lieutenant was being regarded with curiosity by children when the second_ _device exploded, showering John with metal shards and dirt. He fell over the Sergeant, h_ _is patient, hoping against hope this second attack would not finish what the first had started._

_When it was silent, he saw the dying man in his arms screaming silently, fist clutching a St. Christopher medal, mouth open with no noise. Then it was all over, and the helicopter returned for John and his two medics as if nothing had happened, save the extra dogtag and yellow death report form._

"Captain John Watson, M.D"., he says to the boy before returning to reality. "Sorry. John- I'm Dr. John."

"My leg," the boy says, crying harder. He must be three or four.

"Oh, that's not too bad. I can fix that. Happy wound." The false reassurance is something he learned in the 'stan.

"Happy what?"

"Sorry, so sorry. It's just something soldiers say; it means you'll be back on the field in a few days."

The boy stops crying. "Are you a soldier?"

"I was, yes," he affirms, bandaging the leg with strips of his newspaper. "Can you push this for me? It will stop the blood. Good lad! I'm going to check on the people over here."

"Okay, soldier."

He laughs grimly before feeling warm and sticky on his face. He puts his hand to his cheek and it comes away bloody, but he grits his teeth and moves on. The teen girl the boy was playing with is slowly regaining consciousness. A business professional is rocking back and forth. A twenty-something boy is unconscious but breathing in a corner. Everyone else is dead.

What Sherlock could deduce about these people! He'd probably find a way out in no time at all.

"We're trapped," the businessman wails. "If a train comes another way we'll die, and the tunnel lights are out."

"Shut up," says the girl, awakening fully. "You're scaring the kid."

The little boy is, in fact, crying again. He clutches for John's leg with the car-free hand.

"I'm Marly," the girl says. She looks at John, clutching the post, in and out of Afghanistan memories. "Are you alright?"

He forces a grin. "Great. You?"

She wipes her bloody forehead. "Fine."

They are both determined to be brave. He thanks God silently for another calm voice of reason. He checks the twenty-something again. His I.D. reads  _Matt_ .

The little boy, whom they discover is named Eddie, crawls into Marly's' lap and pats her face. "You hurt."

The businessman laughs hysterically. "Hurt? We're all dying! Everyone in the other cars are dead. No one can get through! We're dying!"

John leans into the man, face inches away from his. "You-can't-do-this," he says, shaking his shoulders at each word. "Pull yourself together, man."

"Don't tell me what to do. Who are you? What right do you have?"

"I'm Captain John Watson, M.D., formerly of the 5 th Northumberland Fusiliers. I did my residency at St. Barts and then served on an Allied Forward Surgical Team in Afghanistan. If you think you are more experienced at trauma medicine, go right ahead."

"Bloody good speech," says the twenty- something Matt, laughing weakly. "Get it? Bloody?" He groans and clutches at his arm, or rather, the place his right hand should be.

"I need your suit jacket," John orders the businessman.

"Now," snaps Marly, a tiny tiger when the man slowly wiggles. She helps him out of it and hands the jacket to John.

He moves to Matt, wrapping his arm like a tourniqet. Eddie watches wide eyes.

God, he wishes Sherlock were here. The very way the man moves calms him. It used to anger John, the slow calmness Sherlock greeted shocking news with. He only got excited for murders, didn't he?!  Now he welcomes every quirk. Sherlock would deduce his panic in an instant, were he here now, and it would make John determined to quell it. He is an antidote to John's fever dreams, isn't he? Just enough excitement and snark but calm coolness to still John's wild nightmares.

Except the crackhouses, John thinks wryly. Sherlock would do well enough to leave that alone.

 _Why does everything happen to me?_  John doesn't even have time to think about his luck today, though. He moves on autopilot, save a silent prayer that Sherlock will hurry to the Underground with a solution.

Find me a way out, Sherlock. Don't let my child grow up without  knowing me.

Find me on fanfiction.net : https://www.fanfiction.net/u/4703320/  
And on tumblr: anneofgreengablesthings.tumblr.com


	2. who saved whom?

 It is inky-black in the Tube car, but they have no way of knowing what time it is. John cannot find his phone, it must've slid someplace in the crash. Matt's phone is dead after hours of trying for signal, and Marly' s is smashed. Eddie, the little boy, is asleep in John's lap.

Matt calls out. "Shine your light here, mate," and John clicks his trusty little penlight on. The businessman is curled up, asleep and useless, but there is a fancy Rolex on his arm.

"9:30 p.m,"  John says slowly. "We've been here three hours."

"Is that bad? That they haven't found us?" Marly's face is hollow and trusting and he cannot bring himself to tell the truth.

"It's a bit not good, yeah," he acknowledges gently.

They have all moved to the end of the car, farthest from the dead bodies. Matt is sniffling quietly, trying not to cry out as he drifts in and out of consciousness. John is accustomed to those who play tough - his battalion and Sherlock have provided plenty of experience. 

He speaks so as not to be overheard. "I've got a bit of ibuprofen in my bag. If you took several pills at once, it might help a bit."

"Save it for the kids, all right'?"

"Matt," he whispers, "you need it. Well, what you really need is morphine and surgery, but..."

"Am I going to lose my hand, then?"

The shock has left Matt mental, delusional. John tries to speak and fails. Finally he manages, "Matt, you don't have much of a hand, right now."

Matt yelps like a wounded puppy. 

* * *

 

More time passes, slipping by slowly like beads off a string.

 _It's strange_ ,he thinks. _All along I thought I was saving Sherlock_.

Sherlock needed someone to come along and soften his blunt remarks, to smooth over awkward deductions and make sure he ate and drank and didn't get shot at. And John hadthought that was his role - a friend and helpmate.

But when Sherlock ... jumped... John had realised just how bloody much he needed the man.

It was such much more than observing his astounding deductions and remarking "Brilliant!" and "Amazing." Sherlock had pulled him out of darkness and into a great game of intrigue. A sarcastic, brilliant bishop to John's Valjean.  It was no longer a matter of who needed the other more. He used to wonder, sometimes,who was saving whom. Sherlock had offered a whole new way of life - and John had not merely sipped the Grail, he'd drunk it in satisfying gulps.

And Mary, he thinks dizzily. Sherlock knew her secrets and did not expose them for my sake. He pictures Sherlock and Mary waiting for him and it gives him strength.

"I can't do this again," he whispers, not realising he's praying until the words are out of his mouth.

"Please, God. Haven't I been through enough?"

He is crying now, great silent sobs that wrack his body. What is that cadence the Americans used to shout when running?

 _Pin my medals on my chest; tell my mama I did my best._ They always finished with great gusto; there was nothing they loved more than gallows humor :

_"OH, IF I DIE IN A COMBAT ZO-ONE... BOX! Me! UP! AND SHIP ME HOOOOME!!_ _"_

He was not afraid of dying then, he is now. It will be a terrible thing to die here. A victim, not a soldier or a hero. Just a fatality. 

He wants his death to count, he thinks morbidly. Where is Sherlock?


	3. audentis fortuna juvat [fortune favors the bold]

John kneels on the car  floor and rests his face on a pole. The cool metal feels good on his flushed cheek.

What is delaying rescue efforts? Seven hours is too long. Matt will die without medical attention. He feels responsible for this little group, just as he feels responsible for Sherlock.

 _Sherlock will find us._ Perhaps the walls have crashed in and it is too dangerous to find a way in, he thinks, beginning to panic. It's alright. Sherlock can deduce a solution.

The faith in his friend calms him, and he lets himself slip into relaxed sort of reflection, still wearily watching his charges.

He tries not to focus on his memories, but his brain is a rebellious bastard.

As a doctor, the rule was that he did not go to front lines like medics - doctors are too valuable for that. Instead, he was to be flown in when a situation was so terrible they needed his help. Unfortunately, the area John was in and the battalion he cared for got into a hell of a lot of trouble. Besides, he's never been one to follow rules - if someone's hurt, he wants to be there.

_Especially if one of his friends was hurt. Some of them were so young, he reflects. And their eyes were so trusting..._

_He is holding a soldier's head in his hands, and there's blood, red and purple and brown, all over the dirt. The lad's left side has been ripped open by a grenade explosion, and his lung is sticking out from the ribcage at odd angles. It's called a walnut crack because the chest cracks open just like a nut. But he can't himself look away. He makes himself count the ribs, count the stripes and figure out the soldier was an American staff sergeant. **Is** a sergeant - to John's utter shock he's still gasping for breath._

_"Doc," he gulps, wheezing._

_"I'm right here," John says reassuringly, leaning close to listen. He cannot be older than twenty._

_The boy can barely speak for pain."Doc, am I gonna die?"_

_John forces his face into a reassuring expression and tells the worst lie of his career. "You're going to do just fine, lad," he says gently._

_His face loses some of its pain. "Thanks, Doc!," he says, almost smiling. His eyes close._

_John signals the other medical personnel to leave. Someone else will need saving; this one is beyond help._

_The boy does not cry out, though John knows he is in terrible agony. He is clinging to John's hand like a child when he dies._

* * *

 

John jolts awake, trembling. Nausea rises in his throat and he vomits. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and suddenly realises where he is. Wildly he looks about and sees his companions.are all asleep. Thank God. M _y burst of weakness would not have improved their morale._

He thinks that he will snap if he is here much longer; it is too similar to his nightmares and eerily mirrors his worst fears.


	4. still we beat on

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not as familiar with British military rankings as I am with American Army, but the Allied Expeditionary Forces use a lot of the same equipment and terms. The medical corps on both sides are pretty much identical, and as I'm working on becoming an Army surgeon for the Med Corp I should be able to make this fairly accurate. :p

It must be morning; John crawls to the businessman's Rolex and sees that it is 5 a.m. He wonders how many pounds it cost. More than Sherlock's coat?

He needs to get these people out of here. Help is obviously not coming to them, they must go to it.

The tube car feels relatively sheltered, even though he knows it is not safe. He hates to leave it but knows he must.

 _Audentis fortuna juvat._ Why is he remembering those words? What do they mean? Oh, yes, it's the motto of both a fighter squadron and a regiment of American Marines.

Fortune follows daring, or fortune favors the bold. He's never been one to wait for luck, why start now? 

"Alright, everyone, let's get a move on," he calls.

Marly leaps awake, picking up Eddie. "You lead, we'll follow," she says simply.

Matt looks confused. The businessman whines, "Can we make it out?"

Marly taps her foot. "The man made it out of Afghanistan, didn't he? Come on."

 _Not all in on_ piece, he thinks dryly. Oh well, he won't mention that.Her trust is inexplicably reassuring.  Aside, he says, "Thank you. I was expecting more of a row."

Matt is in no state to walk, so John plans to hoist him over his shoulder in a wounded-carry.

The adrenaline is wearing off, however, and his shoulder is burning and searing. A cane will not help here. His face stings vaguely, maybe glass hit him. It is no matter now. Why is his bloody shoulder flaring up here, of all places?

He picks Matt up to test.

"Bugger," he says, swaying under Matt's weight. He's a slim bloke but even a little pressure hurts John.

They are all looking at him for guidance. He sets Matt down.

"Uhh...Let's go down this tunnel till we reach a platform."

"How do we get out of the train car,sir?" The businessman asks meekly.

"We need to haul off the rubble. If you and I get the ceiling chunks and  Eddie and Marly can get these smaller bits, it won't be too bad..."

It suddenly occurs to John he doesn't even know the man's name. He needs this man to respect him, and befriending him will have to do.

"I don't think I got your name?"

"It's Robert."

"Well, Robert, let's get this big piece here up."

* * *

Robert is cooperative, and they eventually clear out of the car.

"Good work, everyone. Now we'll find our platform. We can't be far from the Piccadilly Circus stop."

John is already hurting, when he slings Matt on his shoulder he nearly collapses.

Eddie is prattling about animals in a clear, piping little voice. He trots obediently behind John. They all feel their way along the walls and stumble about in the blackness.

John can only pray he's leading them in the right direction. Sherlock probably has a map of the Tube in his head, but John doesn't. 

"Soldier," Eddie says suddenly.

"Yes, Eddie?"

"My mum's back there asleep. How's she going to catch up?"

John delivers bad news on a daily basis, but not like this, not to kids. He doesn't know what to say. He rearranges Matt more.comfortably on his shoulder. "Eddie...your mum's not sleeping..."

 _buggerbuggerbugger say something John!_ His brain is no help. A doctor's honesty won't work here. What would a chaplain say? 

"She's in heaven - with Jesus and she's not lonely or hurt or anything..."

He doesn't know what to say and is both surprised and grateful when Robert picks Eddie up.

Matt is openly crying now. The pain of moving is awful; John knows, but if Matt was left in the car he would die.

The med corps. motto beats about in John's head and he trudges on with it in mind.

 _This we do so others may live_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the kudos, comments and bookmarks! I'm not one to beg for reviews or anything, I like to let the story speak for itself but the fact y'all take time out of your day to leave feedback makes me so stinking happy. :) :) :) so thank you!


	5. Friends in low places

"John Watson. Any word on him?"

The Tube official sighed. How many times would the strange man in the long black coat bother him?

"You're not family, sir, I'm afraid I still can't tell you anything."

"He's my bloody best friend."

In a calmer tone, Sherlock continues, " His wife informed me he wasn't on a list of those recovered. She sent me to find out more, as she is rather pregnant."

"Then perhaps he was in one of the cars that was crushed. There's a few that separated in the explosion. Scotland Yard and MI6 have engineering and explosive experts searching for a way down there now. I don't know any information on them-"

"Where is Detective Inspector Lestrade?"

The man pointed tiredly and Sherlock hurried over.

"Thank God you're here," Lestrade whispers.

Donovan doesn't bother with such pleasantries. "Can you think of a way to get to the trapped cars? We don't want to leave survivors down there, and we need to figure out if it was a terrorist attack. But the tunnels' support system is shaky because of the explosion. The last thing we want is to cause a cave in on the victims."

He doesn't look at her. "John's down there."

Lestade swears. In a louder tone he addresses the experts gathered around him.

"This is my good friend Sherlock Holmes. You've probably heard of his brilliant cases in the papers and online. We can trust him. Whatever he tells you to do, do it."

Sherlock closed his eyes for a second, thinking. Then he opened them. In his mind palace he had a map of the Tube stored, and he knew there was a way in.

"There's an old tunnel someone started digging in the early 1900s, during Victoria's reign. It runs alongside the tube route from Piccadilly to Westminster stops. Dig into it. It begins right about-"

He broke off to jog down the street, mapping everything in his head. "Here!" He called presently.

They bought in jackhammers to churn the concrete away and backhoes and all manner of equipment to clear their dirt away.

Sherlock didn't stop to watch. His mind was whirring too fast. Words flashed into his mind palace and hung in the air like balloons. 

 _John. explosions. PTSD. Blood. afraid._ _Trust. John will be frightened, but he's been taught to push through things. Hopefully he will-_

His reverie was interrupted by his phone ringing. Mary. He answers without saying anything.

Her voice is shaking slightly but she sounds calm. "My OBGYN thinks the shock is bad for the baby and could induce early contractions. She doesn't want me to come down there."

"Where are you," he asks, already knowing the answer.

"I'm in traffic only a few minutes away. I'm not going to sit around while John's hurt."

"Mary. You're a nurse...do you honestly think you're in any condition to travel?" He knows he is too blunt, but his words hide his fear. John will trust him to look out for Mary and the baby in his absence. If something happens-

"I've got a few weeks to go. Sherlock, I promise I won't do anything to hurt our little girl. If something happens, I'll leave straight for the hospital."

"Allrigh.'"

Mary bites her lip. It is unlike him to drop the last syllable- he would say only East Enders do that. She realizes just how worried he is and it makes her afraid, too.

 


	6. a rose for Mister John

John once read a short story about the American South. Faulkner, perhaps? A woman poisoned her lover in an attic and kept his body so she could lay by him in death. In the end, they were both just brittle old skeletons. Her wealth and his handsome face -gone. Just dust.

Will the tunnel collapse and leave him a nameless, rotting corpse?

He tells himself he is being too bloody morbid. Sherlock would not believe him capable of waxing so poetic. After all, his blog entries are not half as eloquent as his thoughts.

His shoulder gives out suddenly, and he collapses with a sharp cry, Matt falling with him.

Marly and Robert bend over him anxiously, Eddie pats his face.

 _Go on,_ he almost says.  _Leave me here, to my dusty fate._

But then he hears Mycroft in his head saying, "Look af ~~~~ter him for me," and can see himself hugging Mary.and promising everything will be all right, he forgives her...

He sees himself at Sherlock's "grave" and vows he will not put anyone through the uncertainty. It could take months to find a body in this rubble.

If Mycroft can pick up bits of paper and piece them together for Sherlock and Mary tell him the truth about her past and Sherlock jump off a building, he can do this. 

So he raises himself up on one elbow, gestures for Robert to help him carry Matt, and soldiers on.

* * *

Sherlock finds himself watching Mary. Work crews are digging frantically at the site he has determined, Lestrade is on his third cigarette of the morning and Mycroft is calling Tube officials. There is nothing more for him to do, anyway, he knows the cause of the explosion was terrorists and he knows where to find them. Lestrade has already sent people there. He would have liked the excitment but John needs him here, with Mary. At least he hopes so.

So he waits and watches. Mary has her palm on her belly and smiles subconciously when she feels a kick. That's good. It means she loves the Baby.

 _Why wouldn't she love the Baby?_  He is angry at himself.  He does not need to analyze everything she does; if her explanation is enough for John it is enough for him.

He wanders over to the ever widening hole and prays the workers will hurry, even though he knows they are working as fast as they can.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story refrenced is William Faulkner's A Rose For Miss Emily,.hence the title of this chapter.


	7. Fragments of a dream

Sherlock sees the dust rising like a plume of smoke before he hears the deafening noise. Leaving Mary, he hurries to the spot.

"We're in the second tunnel you told us about," the work foreman says, pushing back his construction hat to mop his sweaty forehead,"Now what?"

Sherlock leaps down into the tunnel, black coat swirling about him like a raven's feathers. 

"Oi," gapes the worker, "You can't do that!"

"Listen to me," Sherlock calls up, "Only one person can dig out the end and get to the victims. You know yourself it'll collapse if others come down here. I simply volunteered for a disagreeable job. Now toss down a shovel."

"It's your own funeral, mate," the man says, but he tosses down the shovel with a "you're a braver man than most."

Sherlock doesn't answer, he is trying to visualize the Tube map. If this tunnel is parallel, where should he dig? He pulls his pocket torch (flashlight to Americans) out and begins to dig.

There is only one spot left in the new Underground where the walls are earthen. Everywhere else is bricked or even metal. He can only hope he has chosen the right spot.

Pretty soon he can see the other track. He crawls through, penlight in his teeth.

The tunnel is empty and eerie. No light filters in, and he cannot see a thing but shadows and track.

No wreckage, no rubble; then that is what he expected. He will have to walk farther down.

He wants to run - the sooner he can get John out the better- but he forces himself to walk. It will not do to exert all his energy, when who knows how long he will be down here.

He starts walking. The silence is oppressive; it feels dark and thick as if it is a phantom hand pushing down upon him. The faint ticking of his watch suddenly seems like thunder.

It is frigid. Silent, cold and dark like a tomb, he thinks then corrects himself. A tomb for some, but not John. John is strong, he will make it out of this.  _Won't he?_

When he has followed the tracks for nearly fifteen minutes he begins to doubt himself. He is not the praying type but he prays a quick, heartfelt prayer and plunges onward.

It is then he hears it, a ghastly shout unlike anything he has ever heard before. It is the bray of the Hound and the cry of a wounded animal and a siren all in one.

He breaks into a run.

Then he sees the people, from a long way off- a little figure and taller ones, huddled figures and someone on the ground.

The little child sees Sherlock and screams.

A weak voice says "It's all right, Eddie, it's help," and Sherlock recognizes the voice.

John slings the person on the ground back onto his shoulder. A teen girl picks up the little boy, and a businessman hastens forward.

"Thank God you've found us-"

Sherlock shrugs him away. John has not yet recognized him, he is struggling with the man on his shoulders and Sherlock hurries to help.

Their eyes meet in the dim glow of Sherlock's light.

John smiles rapturously. "I knew you'd come," he says. Then suddenly his eyes roll back and he cries out in pain- the sound Sherlock heard earlier- and he collapses.


	8. For if One Falls Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WHO's EXCITED ABOUT SERIES FOUR? ME ME ME ME ME :)  
> I wrote this to be sort of hazy and dreamlike, with a concrete beginning and ending and just some big dreamy angst and fluff in the middle. Thanks for sticking with me.

"John!"

Sherlock seldom uses the man's first name, but now is not the time for any formalities, nor any pretense. He catches John as he falls and carefully lowers him to the ground. The others are still standing about,but he doesn't notice them or care until the little boy queries, in a frightened rush," Is soldier-doctor-man-hurt?"

The detective stares at him blankly before realizing that to these victims, John is their savior. "He'll be fine," he says firmly, with what he imagines is a reassuring look. "Now all of you walk down this line as far as I've come, and you'll see the light to get out. Tell them to send down a stretcher."

"GO," he explodes when they hesitate. The tunnel could cave any moment. The girl stops, wriggles out of her jacket and tucks it under John's head. Then they leave, swift and silent.

"Captain, we've been hit," John murmurs deliriously before falling quiet. Obviously he thinks he is back in Afghanistan, and why wouldn't he? The scene is akin to a war. , 

Sherlock turns all of his attention back to John, who is obviously _not_ fine. The doctor's eyes are closed, and his breath comes in shallow gasps.

And then, because he doesn't know what else to do, Sherlock talks. He talks while he examines John and tries to keep him stable.

"You've been down here for two days now, and it's quite awful, isn't it? Mary and I aren't ones to sit and wait, we went right to the Tube station...

He prattles on and on about anything under the sun - loopholes in the legal system, foil deflecting radar, the possibility of Truman Capote writing _To Kill A Mockingbird,_ the absurdity of the American Presidential elections-praying John will wake and hear him.

When the man hasn't moved for a few minutes, Sherlock knows he must move him - getting John medical care is the only hope for his survival.

He stoops to carry the man, looking intently at his wearied face and rumpled clothes. He has made it out of Afghanistan only to end quietly here in a Tube station?

 _I am not resigned,_ he thinks _. John will not die if I can help it_. He lifts him up, feeling the tiny flutter of John's heartbeat against his own skin. 

Down the tunnel. Their journeys together have been long and are often spaced by floods of emotion; of fear and hope and hate and curiosity. This is not the first time one of them has nearly died, it will surely not be the last. Will it?

What if- what if this is what John felt? A patient dying, while you stand helpless? And he, Sherlock, so callous, dragging John into a million and one triggering situations. There is new respect forming in Sherlock. He has always known John is strong, the depths of his strength he has not understood until now.

Somehow he makes it to the tunnel end, somehow he meets the paramedics and helps them load John into an ambulance. He is almost surprised when Mary scrambles into the ambulance- he had almost assumed he would be the one.

_Don' t be a fool, Sherlock, people don't want their friends in an ambulance, they want their spouse or their mum or something like that._

He makes it to 221B with a sort of staggering walk, brushes past Ms Hudson and collapses on the floor without washing even washing the blood- _John's blood_ \- off his hands.

The magnitude of what all his antics must have done to John- the rooftop, countless bomb scares, all the shooting- Mary is calling his phone. He wipes the subway rubble off of it and tries to sound composed.

"Mary?"

"They say he's a fighter, that they think he has a chance. But I think they're trying to keep me calm. Stress is bad for the baby, you know."

The baby. He forgot about that, too.

"I'm a nurse, Sherlock, I know when they're lying. Won't you come help me deduce some straight answers?"

There is a pause, and then Sherlock says, very quietly, " I don't think that would be wise."

"Why the hell not? They're patting my arm and telling me not to worry while they look like he's already dead."

"I'm not- good for him, Mary."

"What on earth do you mean? Please just come down here." 

 

 

 


End file.
